Black Death
by Dorryen Golde
Summary: ON HIATUS The bubonic plague has stricken Europe. Christine and her loved ones flee to Rattenberg, an isolated town untouched by sunlight in the winter. There, she meets a masked musician in an underground dungeon beneath ancient castle ruins. E/C
1. Prologue: A Love Story

A/N: Hello. This is my first _Phantom of the Opera_ fanfic. Just an idea that hatched in my mind. You can read an extended summary on my profile. I know this prologue is hardly satisfying; I promise to add some chapters of actual substance in the near future. I have basically gotten the entire story planned out, except for a few gaps in the middle that I will fill up later. For now, please read this prologue (or the summary on my profile) and give me some feedback on the idea. Thank you!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything original to _Phantom of the Opera_. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's _Phantom_.

**HISTORICAL NOTE:** The castle mentioned in this story, _Schloss Rattenberg_, was built in the 10th or 11th century as a defense structure against raiders and such. In the present day, all that remains are the castle's ruins, save for one preserved tower. According to my research, the _Schloss Rattenberg_ was still in use during the 1300s. However, for my own purposes, I will tweak the facts and assume that in the time of my story, the castle was already in ruins. It's called artistic license, folks.

* * *

**Prologue**

**_In which the author of this singular work introduces the Reader to a love story_**

_1372 – Inn River, Bavaria, Germany_

_Two travelers dismounted from their horse upon reaching the entrance of the riverside lodge. One, an elderly man with sharp eyes, went to deal with the innkeeper who had stepped outside to greet them. The other, a golden-haired youth, affectionately patted her mount and fed him a carrot._

_"See you later, César," said the girl, kissing his muzzle. "I'll see if I can smuggle any sugar cubes from the innkeeper's wife before I visit you in the stables," she whispered conspiratorially before relinquishing the white steed to the stable boy._

_She ran back to her older companion, where he was engaged in a discussion with the innkeeper about their itinerary. "So you just came from Innsbruck?" the latter inquired. "If you're on the way to Rattenberg, just cross the Inn River here and the village is less than a mile's way from there,_ ein Zugereister_."_

_"Thank you, but I'm not exactly a foreigner, you know," said the old man, referring to the title the innkeeper had unwittingly bestowed on him._

_"Oh?"_

_The traveler's eyes had a faraway look in them. "I had lived here for some time about a decade ago," he explained. "Are the glass statues still there?" At this query, the innkeeper started and regarded the man as if seeing him for the first time._

_"Ten years ago," the innkeeper murmured thoughtfully, "so you were there when the…tragedy occurred?" The traveler nodded, looking world-weary and melancholy. No longer in the mood to talk, he motioned to his female companion to accompany him up the stairs to their temporary room. The little girl skipped up the stairs, two steps at a time, babbling about her conversation with the innkeeper's wife._

_"…She was telling me about some of the local superstitions, and I heard you say to her husband that you used to live in the village across the river. Do you know anything about the Phantom of the _Schloss_, Papa?" The old man froze while unlocking the door to their room, bringing a halt to her chatter._

_After a long pause, he sighed and said, "Yes, I know a thing or two about the Phantom of the Castle. In fact, if you want we can visit the ruins of the_ Schloss Rattenberg _once we reach the town. But whatever the innkeeper's wife told you, I assure you that it is not just some local legend. The Phantom was real, flesh and all."_ What little flesh he had on that pitiful skeleton of his_, he silently added._

_The girl's interest was definitely piqued. She sensed a story coming on. "Won't you tell me more? Please, Papa, please!" she pleaded, batting almond-shaped eyes and pouting her cherubic lips. At the tired man's assent, she squealed happily. "Is it a horror story? A fairy tale? Or is like one of the tales in_ The Arabian Nights_?"_

_The old man pensively stroked his dark beard before answering, "No. Oh, I suppose it is a combination of all those things, but that is not the center of the tale. No, my child, what I am about to tell you is, first and foremost, a love story."_


	2. Starved

A/N: I'm back! Hopefully this chapter will be more appealing than the last to my readers' refined tastes. I've done some research on child development for this and the next chapter. In case anyone cares, any information included on obstetrics is from my mom, the article "Physical Contact can Help Premature Babies", and the book _Psychological Trauma: A Developmental Approach_ by Dora Black.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything original to _Phantom of the Opera_. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's _Phantom_.

**HISTORICAL NOTE: **In the 1300s Europe was going through quite a lot of problems, one of them being agriculture. Population growth caused food shortages, and the subsequent famines (the most eminent one being the Great Famine of 1315-1317) weakened people's immune systems. Thus, they were more susceptible to diseases such as, oh I don't know, the bubonic plague perhaps... ;) Anyways, I though a famine and resulting prevalence of malnutrition would be a great way to explain Erik's deformities, rather than him just being an ugly oddball out of who-knows-how-many births...

**PART ONE: Exposition **

**I. Starved**

**_In which hunger afflicts both the flesh and soul_**

_1325 - —ville, near Rouen, France_

So, this was hunger.

Madeleine Destler née Dumont gazed at her reflection in a pond by her cottage. Before the famine, many had called her a beautiful woman. Now, her high cheekbones protruded from her gaunt face, her olive skin turned sallow and hanging from her slim frame, her dark brown tresses matted and unkempt. Once, she had prided herself on having a noblewoman's bearing, despite being a mere peasant. Without proper sustenance, however, she soon adopted the weary, cumbersome gait of all the other village peasants. But appearances were the last of her problems in these hard times.

_Food_, she thought desperately. _Beans, corn, bread, anything!_ Pangs of hunger gnawed at her insides with every step she took. Stumbling back to the cottage entrance, she barely spared a glance at her vegetable garden—or what was left of it. The shriveled bits of roots and tubers lying on the poor soil were painful to look at. Her dear husband Charles had died a little over a week ago, and there was now no one to tend to the fields. Most of their livestock had disappeared long ago. With overpopulation becoming a major problem in this region of Europe, there was even less food to go around.

Rummaging through the pantry, Madeleine gave a cry of relief, clutching a piece of yesterday's bread in her small hand. Nibbling on it hungrily, she let one palm rest on her belly. God knew she needed the food, perhaps more than anyone else in —ville did…

For Madeleine Destler was with child.

--

So, this was pain.

Another inhuman cry escaped the confines of Madeleine's mouth as the midwife attempted to ease the pain with some herbal concoction. It was excruciating; surely there was something wrong? Certainly being subject to such torture cannot be _natural_? When Madeleine told the midwife her fears, however, the latter only replied with soft, soothing assurances that everything was as it should be.

_Bah!_ Madeleine thought, trying to find an outlet for the pain by blaming the midwife. _The baby is early, I know it; if that little witch cannot recognize a premature birth—_ Her ravings were cut short by a shriek. But it was not her own, Madeleine realized, and nor was it out of pain. There stood the midwife, trembling with fear and distrust, holding a tiny bundle in her arms as if she wanted to fling into the fire. Alarmed, Madeleine reached for the bundle, which the midwife handed to her with haste. The new mother did not look down at her crying child, too preoccupied was she with the accusation the midwife flung at her.

"You—you _witch_!" she screamed.

Madeleine was furious. "Oh, _I_ am the witch?" Hastily grabbing her supplies and heading towards the door, the midwife threw a retort over her shoulder.

"What else? Only a witch could possibly give birth to that—that _thing_! 'Tis the spawn of the Devil himself—it has the _evil eye_!" She was out the door, mumbling a fervent prayer under her breath.

Silence. For several moments, Madeleine could only remember to breathe. What utter _nonsense_ that woman sputtered! Her husband would never have tolerated this! If only—

All her thoughts came to a halt as her gaze dropped down to the pitiful bundle in her arms. Perhaps a part of her benumbed brain registered her child's gray, twisted lips parted to release a woeful howl, or the gaping hole where its nose should have been, or the strange pallor of its membranous skin.

But all she could see were a pair of blazing, golden eyes staring up at her.

_The evil eye._

--

Now, dear Reader, I must bring to your attention that poor Madeleine was brought up on the superstitious culture of her time. If she had given birth her son in modern times, perchance, her ignorance would have been lifted. Doctors would have told her that the newborn's apparent underdevelopment was a result of malnutrition during the third trimester of her pregnancy, and his low body temperature a complication arising from premature birth.

Alas, Madeleine could only be the product of her time. As far as she knew, she had borne a living corpse possessed by a demon. She abhorred nursing him; the fact that he was cold to the touch only strengthened her conviction that the "boy" was nonhuman. He was the bane of her life; she saw her eventual fate in his face—that _death's head_—and hellfire in those blazing eyes. The evil eye could only mean that more misfortune was to befall her in this time of famine-perhaps a debilitating illness, or sudden death...

One time, however, even that did not stop her from trying to be a mother.

Midnight had descended upon the little peasant town, and Madeleine was just yielding to the pull of Sleep's current when a sound cut through the warm night air. It was beautiful, terrible—a plaintive cry of such exquisite sorrow that it tugged at the mother's heartstrings and made music.

Madeleine rose from her straw bed and made her way in the dark to where a crib sat in a corner. Closing her eyes to block out the monstrous countenance, the mother picked up her son. For a moment, as she cradled the infant to her breast, she deluded herself that a child of Heaven and not Hell was in her arms. Her son had ceased weeping, and the sound that now issued from his mouth was one of contentment—oh, and such a lovely, musical sound it was!

But the delusion did not last. Her son's voice had lifted her to strange and lofty heights, but now she was returning to earth. The mortal could not but feel the chill of her son's flesh on her naked breast, its odd lumps and indentations…

Shuddering, Madeleine nearly dropped the boy as she placed him back into the crib. Vowing never to fall into another of the Devil's traps, she hurried from the dark corner and allowed sleep to reclaim her.

She could not have known that she had just done both the kindest and cruelest thing possible to her son. For, in his little wooden crib, his puerile brain was abuzz as he struggled to process so alien—and yet, so normal—an experience.

Madeleine Destler had given her son a bit of that sweet, intoxicating ambrosia called love.

And unbeknownst to either of them, he would be seeking another taste for the rest of his life.

--


	3. Awakenings

A/N: Thanks for your reviews! I've finally posted the next chapter; in the last few days I had so many ideas crowding my head, it took awhile before I could arrange them into some presentable format. You get a deeper look into Madeleine and Erik's relationship here, as well as a snapshot of Erik's personality. By the way, don't forget to pay attention to the dates and locations at the start of the chapter; I'll be skipping around, so don't get confused!

"...detached babies, on the other hand, have parents who cannot tolerate physical contact and who punish the child's bids for attention and affection...  
"Detached babies learn to stand on their own feet at an early age; they may even become 'compulsively self-relaint'. They are intolerant of closeness and those relationships that they do make are impaired by distrust. When such relationships come to an end their significance is often denied and grief may be delayed or complicated by anger and guilt. The bereaved person tends to withdraw from social relationships on the grounds that it is safer not to fall in love."

-_Psychological Trauma: A Developmental Approach _by Dora Black

Hmmm...does that description seem to fit a certain masked man we all know and love?

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything original to _Phantom of the Opera_. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's _Phantom_.

* * *

**II. Awakenings**

**_In which a phoenix rises from the ashes_**

_1328 - —ville, near Rouen, France_

Sometimes Madeleine wondered why she did not just smother the thing and end her suffering.

She could feel the heat of his intense gaze as she struggled to wash the laundry with some semblance of composure. Surely, by now, she should be accustomed to those cat-like eyes that watched her every move. If she turned around to look, she would only meet two dark abysses that would glow at night solely for her, illuminated by the flames of Purgatory…_Don't look…_

Her body whirled around on its own accord before her mind could repeat the command. As expected, a black void met her gaze behind the eyeholes of a makeshift mask made of coarse linen. Confronting those eyes and picturing the face behind the mask was enough to make Madeleine's voice tremor as she said, "Boy…"

She had not bothered to baptize him; it had seemed sacrilegious to give a child of the Devil a Christian name. "Boy," she tried again, repeating the appellation with a little more firmness, "why don't you go outside to play while your _maman_ does the laundry, all right?" She did not say, "play with the other children." Since he was able to utter intelligible phrases, the boy had learned that he could not associate with anyone besides his mother. Not that he actually associated with her anyway. Most of the time, it seemed she wanted to forget his existence entirely.

The truth of the matter, my dear Reader: Madeleine was absolutely terrified of her son.

The small head tilted, black orbs regarding her with unusual intelligence. Mild curiosity replaced intensity in those pondering eyes. The boy was seldom allowed to leave the house, especially on a bright, sunny day such as this one. _People are out, _Madeleine had once explained,_ and they might see you._ The distressed mother wrung the dress she had been laundering for the seventh time—a purely superfluous motion, as the garment, now looking rather worse for wear, had been rendered dry by the third twist. When the boy finally left the cottage, Madeleine released a sigh of relief.

It was not merely his disfigured physique that inspired such terror. True, his face was the embodiment of sin itself, with eyes as the windows to hell, and his thinness made the strength of that tall frame seem all the more unnatural.

In addition, however, there was a brilliant mind contained in that shriveled skull of his—a mind that frightened her with its potential. Numerous little contraptions that he had constructed with his bare hands littered the dirt floor beside his straw bed, including a crude little whistle he had whittled from wood. Once, Madeleine had seen her son examining one of the broken garden tools in the common room. The next day, she spotted the tool lying on the ground, as good as new. But his genius was not the only abnormality. Despite his apparent lankiness—having never fully recovered from malnutrition—the boy moved with an otherworldly grace as if he were constantly dancing to music inaudible to mortal listeners. His movements lured the eye as irresistibly as his voice drew the ear.

O! that voice! What a heavenly sound that poured from those withered lips!

_Such ugliness, genius, and beauty united to torment me for the rest of my days_, thought Madeleine miserably. As days, months, years passed by without any bond forming between mother and son, Madeleine heard the boy's angelic voice grow colder, more emotionless. Soon, every sound he made was like a beautiful, icy dagger that dug into her heart, until the pain became unbearable. The boy was instructed to remain silent at all times, unless a verbal answer was absolutely necessary. After muting his voice, she likewise cleared away all his inventions and avoided his penetrating look as much as possible. She did not think she would last long under that scrutiny, that stripping of her protective layers as he uncovered her every secret.

Why this suppression of his mind and spirit? Her consciousness had no reply. Sometimes, she would try to attribute it to religion with the excuse, "It is unchristian to allow such evil to flourish." Then, however, the traitorous part of her mind would retort that an ethereal voice, grace, and mind could not be labeled as evil. Her inner voice was promptly silenced, just like her son's.

Madeleine's subconscious knew the answer. It knew that she was wrestling with her sense of right and wrong. It knew that she was trying to eliminate any reason she might have to keep the boy alive.

--

A little shadow made its way to a thicket not far from the cottage from which it had exited. The three-year-old boy crept quietly through the undergrowth. Silence was something he had mastered to appease the woman he was supposed to call _Maman_. For some reason, that woman could not stand any sound he made; she grew visibly upset and quickly shushed him if he so much as opened his mouth.

He reached a clearing, immediately padding over to a large tree with huge roots protruding from the ground. Nestling into the shrubbery that grew between two roots, the boy closed his eyes in near contentment. Whenever he was permitted to go outside, he almost always came here, where he could feel something akin to warmth and safety…

Frowning, the child tried to recall where he had first experienced those familiar sensations. The two tree roots surrounded him on both sides like cradling arms. Well, certainly the woman called Maman could not have brought on such feelings. She could hardly bear to touch him, always keeping at a distance and recoiling on contact as if she had been scalded. No, Maman never would have wrapped her skinny limbs around him like he had seen other mothers do in the village.

Not that the boy minded, of course. Roots were probably much more comfortable than her arms anyway.

--

A few months later, Madeleine wanted to laugh at herself for lingering so much on thoughts of her son's death. Fate always had the upper hand, and this time it used that cruel hand to turn the tables against the mother's favor.

Madeleine Destler was dying.

She knew something was wrong when she found she could no longer pick up the shovel to tend to her vegetable garden. During a visit to the only doctor in —ville, she learned that her health had been steadily deteriorating since the end of the famine. "You haven't been taking care of yourself," admonished the good doctor. "Your body was suffering from malnutrition, and yet after the famine you didn't try to restore your health. Start getting more rest and increasing your food intake."

On the contrary, Madeleine did not try to improve her condition. She knew she had thinned over the years, but she did nothing to stop it, and continued eating less and less. Those who saw her (though indeed, almost no one did these days) would have commented that she seemed to have lost the will to live. In fact, with the death of her husband, the famine, and the hardships of raising her child, her body was unable to cope with the stress. Before long, she was permanently bedridden, forcing her son to provide her daily medication, meals, and drink. Even those proceedings ceased when she lost the strength to ingest anything.

Her son was present at her deathbed, she being too weak to wave him away. The boy openly stared at her with an odd expression in his eyes. It was not a look of fear, grief, loathing, or even anger. Instead, it was one of morbid fascination as he watched the life fade from her hazel eyes, her thin chest rise and fall one final time, the rose fade from her cheeks. The picture dimly reminded him of the rosy dawn lighting up the cloudy morning sky, except in reverse.

It was the most beautiful phenomenon he had ever seen.

--

Since —ville was only a small peasant village, its funerals were never very grand. Should you ask what part of the service made the greatest impression on the participants, they, being pious Christians, would probably say that the sermon was particularly moving.

Ah, yes, the sermon. It was delivered in the fashion of most funeral sermons, its lessons stale and trite. The priest lectured that grief for the deceased was natural if expressed in moderation. One should mourn in private but wear a brave expression in public.

Had anyone at the funeral noticed Madeleine's young son hiding in the dark shadow of a tree by the churchyard, perhaps they would have praised his exceptionally "brave expression."

Or, more likely, they would have commented on his lack of expression altogether.

The boy's dark eyes were cold, freezing any unlikely tears before they could course down his sunken cheeks. The dirty cloth that covered his face further masked any emotion he might have felt. What's that, dear Reader? What if you had asked _him_ what was most memorable about the service?

Well, you may be certain that he remembered nothing about the monotonous sermon, nor how they washed and dressed his Maman's dead body, nor how they thrice shoveled dirt over the grave, as was the custom. All his awareness left him in the beginning of the ceremony, during the mass.

He had hovered by the massive church doors out of habit; Maman had once told him that a creature like him did not belong in a holy edifice. But his location had not hindered his hearing.

_Dies iræ! dies illa  
Solvet sæclum in favilla  
Teste David cum Sibylla!_

When the boy heard the multitude of voices sing the requiem, accompanied by the sublime notes of a majestic pipe organ, he felt his soul rise in ecstasy.

_Day of wrath! O day of mourning!  
__See fulfilled the prophet's warning  
__Heaven and earth in ashes burning!_

The silence that had weighed down his spirit all these years was shattered.

On the same day that Madeleine Destler took her last breath, her son discovered what it meant to feel alive.


	4. Nausea

A/N: Sorry for not updating for so long; I had to revise a lot of my ideas for this chapter. I hope you guys haven't forgotten about me. ;) I figured out a way to pack the majority of Erik's history into one chapter, instead of extending it into several short, boring ones. There's hardly any dialogue so far, but that will probably change by the next chapter. In case anyone's wondering, my inspiration for the name of the ship, _La Margarita, _came from the character in Goethe's _Faust_. When I looked it up, _margarita_ means "daisy," but the name is also a Spanish variant of Margaret, meaning "pearl." Suitable for a ship, no?

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything original to _Phantom of the Opera_. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's _Phantom_.

**HISTORICAL NOTE: **_La Margarita_ is a cog, a multipurpose naval vessel used for both warfare and cargo transport in the Middle Ages. With a relatively large cargo hold, cogs were used extensively for trade, especially between the North Sea and the Baltic Sea (the region that includes Sweden). Since it was mostly used in Northern Europe, the cog was probably uncommon in Spain, contrary to my purposes. However, there was probably an occasional Spanish cog that braved the northern waters, so let us assume that Erik just happened to jump onto one.

The term "ventriloquism" was not coined until the late 1700s. In medieval times, it was looked upon as a form of witchcraft (as was every else unusual and inexplicable in those days).

Lastly, most of the Roma population (gypsies) in the 14th century had just entered Europe through Greece.

* * *

**III. Nausea**

**_In which a stowaway battles with seasickness_**

_1343 – aboard_ La Margarita_, North Sea, Atlantic Ocean_

Being a stowaway was overrated.

Belowdeck, in roomy cargo hold of _La Margarita_, a green-faced young man was doubled over as the cog's bow pitched forward yet again. In one hand, the man clutched a black leather mask; the other was clamped over his mouth.

Currently, this young man was thinking some very uncomplimentary thoughts about village children who lived many nautical miles away. He remembered how those country bumpkins had fantasized about a secret life at sea, as a clever stowaway who managed to sneak aboard unnoticed. Obviously, their little quixotic minds had not even considered certain privileges a stowaway would be exempt from. For example, in the cargo hold, one would be bunking not with fellow shipmates, but with stout, unfriendly, and often pungent barrels.

_Not to mention,_ thought the young man spitefully, _that_ _it is highly unpleasant to be forced to keep down one's own bile. _Right on cue, he began gagging convulsively as the back of his throat prickled nastily. The hand over his mouth clamped harder; it would not do to alert the sailors to his presence by a telltale stench from the lower deck.

He allowed himself a little groan as the melodramatic part of him declared, _I'm going to die. _Not again. This was not the first time he had been on a ship, yet every time he would invariably be attacked by a terrible bout of seasickness. _Well,_ remarked his cynical side, _if this is the end, at least I know I have lived a fulfilling life._

I spot a quizzical frown on your countenance, dear Reader. Perhaps I should elucidate this odd train of thought, as disappointingly unromantic as it may turn out. Our charming character is not engaging in deep reflection because he feels his demise is near. Oh, no—the plain truth is that he was half-mad with nausea, and if waxing philosophical on life would distract him from his acrobatic stomach, then he would do so.

--

Let us return to when we last saw our unusual protagonist. Madeleine's little son was smart enough to know that he could no longer live in his Maman's house. He had overheard the village elders suggesting that the cottage be converted into a public shed or refurnished for some new residents. The boy had gone back to the dilapidated house just long enough to gather some of his best "toys" and some scraps of food from the garden and pantry into a canvas bag. Hefting his burden over thin, pale shoulders, he had darted over to the familiar, welcoming shadows of the thicket.

I ask you now, dear Reader, what do you think happened next? Those of my humble audience hoping for a romantic tale of a dashing, muscular Tarzan who sweeps Jane Porter off her feet and into a lush, tropical jungle will be bitterly disappointed. Need I remind you that that our hero is hardly more than a corpse, our Jane not even yet born, and our setting the dismal, barren lands of Northwestern Europe?

I also refuse to paint luscious fruits on the coppice trees where there are none. And everyone knows that a growing boy—especially a skeletal one—needs to eat.

The meager supply in his knapsack could not have lasted forever. Thus, on finding both his bag and belly empty, the boy had had no choice but to return to —ville. Without any money whatsoever, our poor orphan had become the lowest of the low: a beggar.

At some point in life, I believe that everyone realizes the will to live can get very tiresome and inconvenient.

At first, he had actually attempted to earn his keep. After the famine, the village had occasionally encountered traveling minstrels passing by. With such memories in mind, the boy had tried to use his enthralling voice to garner a few precious coins from the pockets of miserly peasants.

Maybe it would have worked, too, if the suspicious country folk had not been so distrustful of his "mask of sin."

Confound the mask! Confound the wicked sorceress of Fate who bestowed the horror behind it! Together, these two evils became a powerful force that grudged their poor possessor sustenance, love, and every other basic human right.

Even beggary had yielded meager results. More often than not, families had slammed the door out of fear upon seeing the mask. If he was lucky, they tossed an edible morsel out of pity—or a desire to get rid of the "fiend" as quickly as possible.

Sometimes people had demanded that he take off the mask. He had always instinctively refused, applying years of Madeleine's teaching. One day, however, hunger had won over reason, and at the promise of food on the aforementioned condition, the child had removed the dark piece of linen.

On that same day, he had fled from his hometown hounded by the gleaming teeth of pitchforks.

When beggary proved a failure, the boy's resourceful mind figured out another option. And thus, the craftiest, nimblest, and most elusive thief in Europe had been born. His notoriety had soon extended throughout all of France. Night watches had been enforced. Nevertheless, harassed watchmen could have offered only a vague description from rare sightings. With a reputation as "_La Petite Ombre_", therefore, it is no wonder that when a group of bandits had encountered this light-fingered tramp, they had been eager to adopt him into their immoral ranks. By this arrangement, the Little Shadow had been able to exercise his skills beyond the borders of _La France_.

Our cunning protagonist was not naïve. Still, one must keep in mind that he had been young, with only a few added years of experience since Madeleine's death. Furthermore, his limited experience with people had not done much to raise them in his esteem. So when the rogue had joined the band of thieves as they roamed about the continent, his judgment had been hindered by a novel sense of belonging at their apparent acceptance of his mask, and later, his face.

Does my Reader dare hope that our orphan has found a family among these thieves, one that has accepted him and his deformity out of the goodness of their hearts? No, I see you do not. A wise decision. After the initial horror had passed upon beholding the boy's face, an wicked idea had formed in the devious, calculating mind of the band leader.

The coldhearted felon had consulted his right hand man. "The little rascal we picked up in France may prove to be a valuable asset," the former had said in a cool, measured tone. "He has a hypnotic voice but a repulsive face…a potentially useful combination." Exiting his tent, he had stridden purposefully to the fire in the middle of their temporary camp, where the masked boy sat dejectedly staring into the flames. None of the other thieves had been in sight, unable to confront the grotesque monster in their midst.

The boy had felt a hand on his shoulder and had whirled around in a defensive position, ready to block a blow. When he had found himself face to face with the Leader, he had dropped his raised arms in surprise. The orphan had been further astounded when the Leader had draped an arm over his bony shoulders and leaned towards him conspiratorially. "I've watched you at work," the leader had said in a foreign tongue, "and I see that you've got more skills in those quick fingers of yours than all the other louts put together. How 'bout we put your other specialties to good use?"

Overwhelmed by such special attention, the boy had stared, dumbfounded, as his long digits had been enveloped in the tanned, calloused hands of the Leader. Then, lifting his chin like a prince at a grand coronation, he had proudly answered, using bits of the same language he had picked up from their travels, "What would you like me to do, my lord?"

After that unusual colloquy, the young pickpocket had played a central role in all robberies and village plunders. He had grown arrogant over his new position, noticing with satisfaction the hostile looks he earned from the others when discussing the next "mission" with the Leader. Alas, he had not been aware that the Leader was laughing silently at the gullibility of his pawn.

Yes, his pawn. For all his genius, our pickpocket had been blind to the fact that he was being used, his talents exploited for the benefit of someone who could not care a wit for his personal wellbeing. The boy had confided in his new "friend," sharing his hopes, ideas, and opinions. The Leader soon new all his interests, and even indulged his protégé from time to time, if only for the sake of earning his loyalty. It was from this experienced felon that boy had learned countless magic tricks, foreign languages, and the witchcraft of "throwing one's voice." The protégé had been a quick learner with an insatiable hunger for knowledge, and before long, the pupil had surpassed the master.

Allow me to explain his role in the band's crimes. The thieves would be gathered near the village entrance, unnoticed by the night watch. The Little Shadow, draped by his namesake, would begin to sing, throwing his voice so it was heard by the entire settlement. I have spoken of the alluring quality of that voice. This feature would never fail to draw sleepy villagers from their homes in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the singing angel. Thus distracted, the innocent people would be oblivious to the lithe bodies of burglars slipping into their houses to steal their valuables. If there had ever been any chance that they might be caught, which was often, the boy had been instructed reveal his face.

Every time, as expected, the villagers had been horrified, and with such a diversion, the bandits had made a clean escape.

What of the boy? The Little Shadow had been a master at vanishing and reappearing at will, and so he would have eventually managed to slip away into night and back to the camp. Had he been hurt by the villagers' reaction? Probably yes, though by then he had learned to expect it. Besides, he could not have allowed for such maudlin weakness; the important thing had been that he was of use to his comrades.

There had come a time, even after a few years of this routine, when loopholes appeared in the magician's battered hat. Somehow, our wizard had erred, and the fraud of the disappearing act had been exposed. Caught in the merciless, glaring light of torches, the unmasked Little Shadow had cowered before the surrounding villagers. Golden eyes had squeezed shut as he had waited for the shadows to embrace him, for his comrades to save him. Nothing—and the mob had swallowed him up.

In the end, the horde had left him for dead, tossing the body outside of the village. We must forgive them for the honest mistake; after all, the boy had already resembled a corpse. The only difference was that his pale skin had now been blackened with bruises, his limbs and back carved with bloody scars.

Once he had regained consciousness, the pitiful, wounded creature had dragged himself back to the camp—or where it had once been. Haggard golden eyes had taken in the scene: the smothered ashes of a campfire, scraps of tent canvas stuck to rocks and sticks, and not a soul in sight. It was some time before he had realized that he had been abandoned.

With the realization had come physical and emotional pain. His insides had twinged at the thought of losing his only food supply. His heart had ached from the loss of someone he had foolishly called a friend.

Eventually, he had hardened himself to face life on his own once again. He had stolen as needed, lingering in coastal cities where seafood was plentiful. Sometimes, a random fisherman may have spotted a little shadow darting from the wharf and onto the nearest boat. In this fashion, the rogue had made his way around the Mediterranean, even snatching a black leather mask from a gypsy caravan in Greece. By the age of eighteen, he had reached Spain, effortlessly procuring "free" accommodations for himself on _La Margarita_—where, at the beginning of this installment, we saw him making a valiant effort not to retch on the wooden floorboards.

--

At last, he no longer felt an urge to spout bile all over the deck. His eventful life was a very engaging topic for the mind. _A life of fulfillment indeed!_ spoke his awakened sarcasm. _I'm sure that most men would die happy knowing they have led a life of neglect, crime, and abandonment!_

Suddenly, he felt nauseous again. But it was not from seasickness.

--

He heard Captain Marcos Batista review the crew's itinerary with the first mate.

"After passing the Strait of Dover it's been mostly open sea," remarked the captain, "but soon we'll reach our final destination."

"And that will be…?"

The stowaway listened carefully out of curiosity. He knew the cog was traveling farther north than he usually ventured, but he had been getting bored of the Mediterranean. He conjured up the mental picture of a world atlas, guessing on random northern countries before the captain answered,

"Sweden."


	5. Baptism

A/N: Oh, dear. Against my will, it seems that each chapter is becoming longer than the last. I hope it's not too tedious; at least I included some dialogue. This chapter is basically my take on how Erik would meet Christine's father, and how they would get along.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything original to _Phantom of the Opera_. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's _Phantom_.

**HISTORICAL/LANGUAGE NOTE:** Sweden and most other Scandinavian countries never really established feudalism, so there were no serfs and private ownership of land was not uncommon. Marstrand is a little town by the sea that's been around since c. 1200. About the instruments: the nyckelharpa is a traditional Swedish instrument looking like a hybrid of a violin and hurdy-gurdy; _vielle_ is the French name for fiddle; and the hurdy-gurdy is like a mechanical violin. All instruments mentioned were in use during the Middle Ages. _Herr_ and _Fru_ are the Swedish equivalents of Mr. and Mrs. And I am perfectly aware that in the book, Christine's father's name is spelled _Gustave_, not Gustav, but the former is the French variation. Last but not least, "every man's right to roam," which Erik mentions near the end, is actually a Swedish customary law referred to as _Allemansrätten._

* * *

**IV. Baptism**

**_In which a Christian sacrament is performed in an unorthodox fashion_**

_1343 – Marstrand, Sweden_

Gustav Daaé was a fatherly man.

Though only in his late thirties, his dreamy blue eyes had the look of one older than his years. The crow's-feet that framed those eyes from years of laughter and the platinum blonde hair—so pale it was almost white—combed neatly to hide signs of thinning only added to the effect. He projected an aura of innate wisdom that made others look to him as a village elder, even if he did not perform the duties of an alderman in an official capacity. The townspeople of Marstrand sought him for advice in daily concerns, depended on his judgment to resolve petty disputes, and relied on him to provide aid in times of need. Children loved gathering around his feet to hear ancient Scandinavian legends as he strummed a beautiful golden harp.

He was "fatherly" in another sense of the word as well. A pious man, he took a kind interest in the town children's biblical studies, throwing in the occasional lecture. While devout, however, he had a liberal interpretation of the Bible, making his opinionated homilies far more interesting to listen to than those of the prudish nuns at Sunday school. When asked why he had never taken up priesthood as a vocation, he replied jovially, "Abstinence never suited me," and winked at his wife.

Although his ancestors were from Norway, Gustav's loyalty was reserved solely for Sweden. Gustav privately owned a quaint parcel of land near the coast, slightly set apart from the other inhabitants of the seaside town. An educated man, he had heard of how serfdom was practiced in many other European countries, and shuddered at the thought of working on anyone's land but his own. He primarily worked as a craftsman, but for practical purposes he also did a bit of farming. With a substantial income (higher than that of most peasants), Gustav lived here in Marstrand with his beloved wife, Hanna, in relative comfort. But despite his general contentment, his active role in the town's affairs, and the company of his gentle wife, he could not help feeling as if something was missing.

Gustav was a fatherly man, but after over a decade since his union with Hanna, he still had not fathered a child.

_God knows we've tried_, he once thought dryly. In his heart of hearts, Gustav desired a son, a strapping young boy who would romp around the beach, sulkily attend the village school, work as his apprentice in the craft of instrument-making… But Gustav would not fuss over gender if the Lord were willing to bless him with a child.

Years later, in retrospect, Gustav Daaé would hold this secret longing responsible for his actions on and after that fateful day…

…the day that he met Erik.

--

It was a slow day at the shop, and Gustav had spent most of it absently rearranging things. The nyckelharpa should be moved to the left, and the hurdy-gurdy transferred to a lower shelf. The beautiful collection of fiddles he displayed in a row at the front of the shop, arranged by the color gradient of the wood composition.

Had business not been nonexistent and the town children not too busy with chores to clamber into his shop for story telling that day, Gustav never would have noticed the shadow that nearly stole his prize fiddle right under his nose.

Even as he reached out to seize the gloved hand, a thousand thoughts and observations clicked in Gustav's quick mind. _A thief in Marstrand?_ The seaside village was usually devoid of criminals, save for an occasional pickpocket caught with a hand in someone's purse. A more bizarre question then presented itself: _A thief in a shop selling _musical instruments_?_ The scene made no sense. The intruder was undoubtedly a thief; he possessed a tall build, and his slim body was dressed entirely in black, complete with black gloves and cloak. A leather mask of the same sinister color covered his face, which was framed by wispy locks of dark hair. Gustav's trembling hand finally closed around the thief's, though the shop owner might have been holding the glove alone, so thin was the hand it protected. His grip on the skeletal hand loosened lest he should unknowingly break such delicate bones.

An exceedingly imprudent thing to do. Before Gustav could even cry out in alarm, unexpectedly strong fingers tightened like an iron vice around his throat. Over the subsequent sounds of choking and gasping, a cold yet magnificent tenor spoke in a sibilant whisper, "If I release you, you must not utter a single sound. Is that clear? You do not want to know the consequences if you disobey." Gustav nodded, then staggered at the sudden removal of the steely hold on his neck. Once his breathing rate returned to normal, Gustav looked up into a pair of blazing golden orbs.

The masked man was irate, and much of his anger was directed at himself. What had _possessed_ him to enter the bloody shop in broad daylight? Granted, it was nearly sundown, but he had never been careless enough to venture into a public area without adequate protection from the shadows.

It was that bloody _vielle_'s fault. He would not have risked being caught if the fiddle had not caught his eye. At the sight of the exquisite instrument, the young man could not resist reaching out to discover what divine sounds it could create. If he was in control of at least half his wits, he would have at least chosen an instrument closer to the entrance to allow for an easy escape. But that particular _vielle_ had called to him with phantasmal melodies, had dared him to bring its voice to life…

Unbeknownst to the fuming criminal, his victim was running along a similar train of thought. Perchance a different man would have been marveling over how close he had just been to losing his life at the hands of a complete stranger, or formulating a way to contact the nearest guard. Gustav, however, was not an ordinary man. His artist's soul had questions that drowned out warnings from his more sensible side. For instance, why had the thief chosen _that_ particular fiddle? It was not near the entrance, nor was it displayed as a centerpiece (a guilty possessiveness had compelled him to place it somewhere more inconspicuous). Nevertheless, the instrument was potentially the magnum opus of his craft, and after countless hours painstakingly working with his finest materials, Gustav had been prepared (if dreading) to part with his masterpiece in return for a considerable sum. And here, right in his shop, a thief had attempted to snatch it away without a single imbursement. Surely a common thief could not be a music connoisseur?

The masked man was pulled from the mire of his angry thoughts at the shop owner's voice, and was surprised to see only puzzled curiosity reflected on the older man's face. _What_, thought the young man bemusedly,_ no thunderous anger, no dumb confusion, no wild terror upon encountering a felon in his shop?_ His surprise did not diminish at the shop owner's inquiry.

"Why did you choose that fiddle?" Well, _that_ was certainly unexpected. No one had ever asked him _why_ he stole the things he did—probably because they were knocked unconscious before they could even open their mouth.

"Excuse me?" The criminal was waiting for the accosted man to have a nervous breakdown at any moment. The moment did not come, and the latter repeated the query.

The interrogatee honestly had no answer. "I—I don't know," he said slowly. _Oh, to hell with it,_ he then thought. _For once, telling the truth can't be any harm!_ "There was just something about the vielle that told me it had the most beautiful voice!" he finally admitted. "I wanted to know how it would sound for real, instead of just hearing songs in my head!"

"Do you know how to play?" A pause.

"No," came the reply. How idiotic he sounded! The young man was seriously starting to regret ever setting foot in the shop. Then, he never would have gotten into such a humiliating predicament.

Meanwhile, Gustav's mind was alive with excitement. _Extraordinary!_ he thought. _To think out of all the people in Marstrand, it is a thief that can hear the true voice of the vielle! _At the intruder's last few words, Gustav recalled a snippet of one of his favorite Scandinavian tales:

_"The Angel of Music sings songs in your head…"_

An ethereal voice cut through his thoughts. "It appears I must be going," said the unusual thief, having regained his composure. "I don't want to impose."

"Ah, then I suggest that you don't steal too many fiddles. That can be dreadfully imposing, you know."

"I'll remember that," said the thief, golden eyes tinged with amusement. As he moved to egress, however, a sudden movement behind him made him whirl around.

"Wait!" It was the shopkeeper, hastily gathering some items into a satchel. "I'll go with you; it's time that I closed shop anyways." The thief raised an eyebrow under the mask. The man actually wanted to go _with_ him?

"I assure you that I won't steal any more fiddles," said the younger man uncertainly. The shopkeeper seemed to have finished tidying up the shop, going out the door to the empty street. The masked man hesitated before following him, wondering if this was a trap. Somehow, he sensed that it was not.

"My name's Gustav Daaé," said the shopkeeper by way of introduction. "You are…?"

The masked thief made him a formal mock bow. "The most notorious thief in Europe at your service, _Herr_ Daaé."

This time it was Gustav that cocked his brow. "I would think that you would be experienced enough to not get caught by a shortsighted old man in broad daylight."

"Yes, well, that was a rare aberration," was the embarrassed reply. Gustav and the "notorious thief" enjoyed another round of light banter, much to the surprise of both. Before long, Gustav found himself at the entrance to his cottage.

Turning to his new acquaintance, Gustav asked, "Do you live nearby?"

He was answered by a laugh, followed by "Do you really think an experienced thief would answer that?"

"Haven't I proved that I can keep silent?" the older man protested.

After a brief pause, the masked boy—for Gustav now realized that he was merely a boy (albeit a very tall one)—said, "I don't _live_ anywhere, Herr Daaé. No need to look so concerned; I always find some place to spend the night."

"Would you like to stay here? There is some space in the shed that we can convert into a bed." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. The expression in the boy's golden eyes mirrored Gustav's thoughts:_ What the deuce compelled you to make such a ridiculous offer?_

The thief was the first to break the silence following that strange proposal. "As I said before, I do not want to impose," he coolly declined. "It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Herr Daaé. Perhaps we will meet again in the future."

--

The future was closer than either of them thought. The next day, as Gustav opened the door to the shed were he kept most of his supplies, he found a shadow huddled underneath his working table. Raising a gloved finger to the lips of his mask, the shadow hissed, "Shhh! He's coming!"

Ignoring the warning, Gustav whispered, "What did you do this time?" In the dark, fiery eyes glowered at him.

"_This time_ I was actually innocent. Don't blame me if they were foolish enough to try and see what was behind the mask."

"And just what _is_ behind it?" Before he could hear an answer, Gustav was greeted by Marstrand's portly constable running up the path to the wooden shed.

"Herr Daaé!" shouted the constable, panting at the exertion. "Have you seen anything suspicious around here?"

_Nothing but a masked thief hiding in my working shed, _thought Gustav wryly. Out loud, he responded, "No, nothing. Is something wrong?" The corpulent constable nodded furiously.

"There's a monster roaming about the town, so you better beware. The beast has the body of a man, but he wears a black mask to hide his monstrous face. Keep your wits about you." With that sagely bit of advice, the constable huffed and puffed back to the town to continue his search. At his departure, a tense silence borne from Gustav's newly gained knowledge loomed over the shed's occupants.

At last, the thief spoke out from his hiding place. "What an incompetent excuse for a law enforcement officer. Is there not a law in this country that gives every man a right to roam?" Gustav chuckled at such miffed censure. The younger man crawled out from the sheltering darkness, and the craftsman was shocked to find that his glowing orbs dimmed to black in the light.

"What? Leaving so soon?" said Gustav, alarmed when the masked man strode to the shed's wooden threshold.

"Forgive me. I must seem terribly rude to deny your offer of shelter one day, take advantage of it the next, and then take leave without a farewell. Rest assured that it will not happen again. I am not in the habit of bothering members of the human race in such a petty manner."

Gustav grasped a black-gloved hand before the young man could go out the door, failing to prevent an inexplicable note of desperation from slipping into his voice. "Policemen are still looking for you. It's not safe. You should stay here until the panic has died down a little." A strange look of wonderment appeared in the boy's eyes, along with questions Gustav knew he could not answer coherently. The most obvious question was, _Why do you care?_

They both knew Gustav's excuse was invalid. It was no challenge for the masked boy to evade the police. Gustave was no fool, so he could barely suppress a gasp of astonishment when the boy consented to stay for a few days.

Perhaps they were both remembering the connection they had shared on their first encounter. Or perhaps both men felt they had endured the pangs of loneliness for long enough.

Nonetheless, for the time being, neither of them could bear to say goodbye.

--

It was only the first day, and the masked boy was already a trial to live with.

Gustav kneeled beside the bed. "You never told me your real name, O notorious thief of Europe," he teased, pronouncing the epithet in dramatic mockery. Said thief, propped up on the pile of straw, looked scornfully down at his benefactor.

"I don't have one." Gustav shook his head incredulously.

"Of course you have one; even criminals are christened a name. What do people call you?" The boy's countenance suddenly twisted into a sort of sour smile.

"Well, if you put it that way, I've been called a number of things: monster, freak, Little Shadow, Devil's Child —will any of those suffice?" At this embittered reply, Gustav stared at the boy with a mixture of pity and indignation. What could have spurred such hostility from his fellow humans? Finally, the older man spoke.

"Of course not. Baptism is a very important ritual, and should not be taken lightly."

A sullen response: "I don't need a name."

"Baptism is not just about naming; it also involves purification from past sins."

The boy retorted mockingly, "And you're hoping that I will suddenly reform my criminal ways?"

Gustav ignored him, continuing, "Besides, a growing boy like you needs a proper name, and it might as well be a Scandinavian one. I'll call you...Erik. It was my grandfather's name, and I would have passed it down to my own son. It means 'ruler of all.' How does that suit you?"

To Gustav's surprise, "Erik" was glaring at him with fury and...confusion? "'How does that suit me?'" the boy repeated furiously. "Are you mocking me? 'Ruler of all—'" he spat, "—as if anyone could look upon _me_ with respect!"

This time it was Erik's turn to look surprised as Gustav regarded him with a calm, knowing gaze. Sighing, the older man stood up to leave, saying, "No, Erik. I am not referring to your circumstances. You have a commanding aura about you, and I have no doubt that, if you pleased, you could rule the empire of the world." With that, Gustav stepped out through the door.

But not before he heard the boy murmur behind him,

"Erik," in a hesitant, hopeful whisper, as if testing out the sound. "I...I have a name. I have _a name_."

And, for one glorious moment of his wretched existence, Erik felt pure.

--


	6. Eden

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything original to Phantom of the Opera. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's Phantom.

* * *

**V. Eden**

**_In which Man banishes himself from Paradise_**

_1343 – Marstrand, Sweden_

Erik's stay stretched from a few days, to weeks, to months. Once a flower bud frozen in the cold of winter, he was now blooming in the warmth and light of Gustav's care. A mutualistic relationship developed between the strange pair. Erik was the son that Gustav had always longed for.

In turn, Gustav became Erik's world.

Daily, the aging craftsman would witness a startling transformation. For most of the day, the masked man could be seen loafing about the shed, the epitome of lethargy but for the alert golden orbs that picked up the slightest of movements. Who knew what went on in his dark, convoluted mind? In the evenings, however, Erik was an energetic young colt situated at Gustav's feet, waves of anticipation radiating from his lean frame. Indeed, it seemed like Erik lived solely for those evenings when Gustav would draw out his fiddle and music would serenade the setting sun. At the end of each song, Erik would always beg for another, and the musician could never refuse such a winning plea from his rapt listener. He played until he was certain his fingers would fall off from the exertion.

On one of these evenings, the exhausted musician sat back and watched as his masked auditor reverently caressed the well-worn fiddle with a featherlight touch. An idea blossomed in the older man's head, and he wondered why he had waited so long to ask,

"Erik, would you like to learn how to play?"

The days that followed that offer would be forever preserved and cherished in both their memories. Gustav had never seen such unsurpassed genius, and Erik had never known such bliss. The latter tried to remind himself, _Happiness does not last,_ but he soon lost himself in the joy of creation. No longer did the latter languish in idleness; music kindled the fiery passion for life that had been smothered for so long by misfortune. When he was not "sawing away," as Gustav jokingly called it, Erik was attentively observing his teacher's craft, occasionally voicing suggestions for the construction of various instruments. Naturally, there was soon nothing left for Gustav to teach; Erik had mastered the craft of instrument-making and had learned how to play every instrument he could get his hands on.

One could say that the student had graduated from his music lessons. And like any traditional teacher, Gustav felt obliged to present his star pupil with a gift.

Long, trembling fingers fumbled with the fastening of the wooden case for some time before Erik was able to lift the lid and peer inside. The sight of the vielle was not as unexpected (the case, after all, was a distinctive shape) as Gustav's concise explanation:

"It's yours."

Afraid to touch the prized instrument lest it vanish on contact, Erik settled for examining its smooth curves, the fine strings, the rich woodwork. It did not take a genius to recognize Gustav's masterpiece—the one that Erik had unsuccessfully tried to steal many months before.

"I..." But he could not continue. Looking up at his teacher, Erik allowed his eyes to convey the gratitude his awkward tongue failed to voice. When he was finally able to string together a full sentence, it did not come out as the "thank you" he had intended. Instead...

"What a pity. I was so hoping for a second chance to steal this from you like a respectable thief. The fact that it's now handed to me on a silver platter is rather degrading, you know."

--

Soon, not only was Gustav's charitable deed considered a "degradation," but a disturbance as well. Now that Erik owned his own vielle, he forsook all other necessities for his music. (It is safe to assume that he did not flesh out during this time, as he neither ate nor slept in adequate amounts.) The tranquility of the little dwelling was shattered by endless strains of achingly beautiful music. The lord and lady of the cottage were not exempt from the power of Erik's sweet melodies, sorrowful laments, or passionate symphonies.

"Oh," Hanna groaned on her straw bed at Gustav's side, "_do_ tell that genius of yours to _stop._ It's midnight by now, and his music has placed my emotions on a pendulum. I swear I've cried, laughed, and screamed more this week than I ever have in my life—can't he play something more emotionally consistent?" Her husband would merely laugh and shrug, lightly replying that one cannot restrain artistic genius.

I will have you know, my devoted Reader, that though Erik's soulful music undoubtedly made a contribution, _Fru_ Daaé's mood swings cannot be wholly attributed to it. On her next visit to the village doctor, the aging couple made a wonderful discovery. Gustav immediately dashed home to inform Erik of the news.

"Hanna is pregnant!" the older man cried joyfully. Erik, naturally, had been fiddling (if you will excuse the pun) around with his fiddle, and nearly dropped the instrument in surprise. It was not a pleasant shock, mind you. I am sure all of us have been possessed by that black demon called Jealousy. Heretofore, Erik had been Gustav's only (if not natal) child, and now he would have to actually _share_ Gustav's attentions! To his credit, Erik was thoroughly ashamed of himself at Gustav's next exclamation.

"For fifteen years Hanna has been unable to conceive," the soon-to-be father began with emotion. "When she finally does, it just happens to be the same year I meet you! I tell you, by Jove, it's not just some coincidence. You've been a blessing to this old soul, Erik, and I thank you for that." _A blessing?_ thought Erik. _Maman had always said I was the bane of her life..._

Still, nine months passed rather too quickly for Erik. On the day Hanna went into labor, Gustav occupied himself at the cottage while the young man moped around in the shed. Many, many hours later, Erik heard a knock on the door—Gustav. The older man was breathless with wonder and excitement.

"I have a daughter! Oh, Erik, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Come," he said, taking Erik's arm, "you _must_ see her." The latter protested, his jealous self reluctant to set eyes on the object of Gustav's rapture.

After a few minutes of cajoling, Erik found himself inside the cottage, staring at the bundle in Hanna's arms with what can only be described as awe. Surely _this_ could not be a baby? Such perfection cannot be embodied in a mere newborn! Golden orbs traced the delicate curve of the child's tiny nose, the wispy strands of blonde hair plastered to her scalp, and doe-like eyes the color of the heavens. He thought of his maman once again: _Maybe if I had looked like this, Maman would have loved me_.

"Isn't she beautiful?" asked the proud father.

For some reason, Erik wanted to cry. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, she is."

At first, Erik adamantly refused to hold the baby, lest he should curse "the angel." He finally relented, however, at Gustav's insistence.

To the parents, it was truly heartwarming to see this dark, silent foundling almost fearfully cradle their newborn girl in his strong arms as if he was afraid she would fly away from him like a bird. "_M'ange de le lux_," he crooned reverently. "My angel of light." The infant opened her sky blue eyes and gurgled happily at the sound.

Hanna had a similar reaction to her daughter. "Oh my," she sighed dreamily, "you have a lovely voice." Erik made a embarrassed noise, returned the wrapped bundle to her, and slipped back into the shadows.

As _Herr _and _Fru _Daaé conversed in hushed voices, Erik looked upon the picture of pastoral perfection with a heavy heart. Silently cursing, he berated himself for ever dreaming that he could be a part of their happy family. Gustav had a beautiful daughter now; why would he care about a hideous monster like him? No, he would only spoil their bliss, infecting them with his presence like a disease. Taking one last glance at the beautiful blue-eyed baby, Erik walked back to the shed and picked up his vielle case. As he left the realm he had come to call Heaven, he repeated a mantra in his head:

_Happiness does not last_.

--

* * *


	7. Death

**A/N: **Here is a relatively lengthy chapter (my longest yet) for my patient Readers! I have included a slightly larger (though still not original) cast of characters here; the appearance of Madame Giry and Raoul are drawn from the 2004 film, as well the name of the Genoese trading ship (probably the only aspects of the movie I will use--see my profile for my reasons). For those of you wondering why a ship would be called "The Mute," my justification is that the builder meant for it to travel very smoothly and silently in the water, all right? I also have an announcement to make: this is the last chapter of PART ONE. PART TWO will will start by skipping forward quite a few years, so that little Christine will be a lovely young woman rather than just, to quote myself, "a darling little lass".

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything original to _Phantom of the Opera_. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's _Phantom_.

**HISTORICAL NOTE: **Various historical events come into play in the year in which this installment is set. The first known European outbreak of the bubonic plague occurred in 1347 on trading ships heading for Italy. By the following year, the plague had spread to the rest of Northwest Europe (including France). It struck Russia in 1351, several years after our protagonist was found by Nadir. The setting of PART TWO, the town of Rattenberg, though at the time part of Germany, is present-day territory of Austria, which did not encounter the Black Death until the 1700s.

France was experiencing other problems besides the epidemic. At this time it was in the first decade or so of _Guerre de Cent Ans_, or the Hundred Years' War. This conflict was between two royal parties: the House of Valois, a family of Frenchmen who claimed the French throne; and the House of Plantagenet, most notably Edward III of England, who claimed the throne of England _and_ France. Not to mention there were many peasant revolts and uprisings fighting for more rights for the commoners (they actually succeeded to an extent due to labor shortage during/after the Black Death). All in all, there was a lot of violence and chaos going on.

Meanwhile, in Persia, the Ilkhanate Dynasty (a line of Khan rulers) was falling apart after the recent death of the ruler Abu Sa'id in 1335. At this juncture, various states in the region tried to claim the throne, resulting in several brief dynasties. I think it is safe to assume, in light of such turmoil, that there were plenty of conspiracies, bribing, blackmailing, and assassinations going on to occupy an experienced criminal.

* * *

**VI. Death**

_**In which our cadaverous hero has (other) corpses for company**_

_1348 – Paris, France_

Parisian pedestrians slowed their bustling pace as they neared the pair of minstrels. One, a fiddler, was a middle-aged man with thinning blonde hair and misty blue eyes that were now shut as he poured his heart and soul into his music. Though no doubt very talented, the man was merely an accompanist to the darling little lass who vocalized sweet ditties in Swedish or accented French. She possessed a voice of such pure, unaffected beauty that listeners thought her an angel blessing their mortal souls with song.

Gustav—or Monsieur Gustave Daaé, as he was called in this country—listened to his daughter with rightful pride. The little girl's high voice was still untrained—there would be time for that later—but she sang with youthful exultation and vigor that compensated for lack of refinement. Daily, Gustave would thank the Lord for giving him this child as an anchor against the seas of despair that had threatened to drown him five years ago.

It had started with a day to both rejoice and mourn—the day he had gained a daughter, but had lost a son.

Erik had left without so much as a parting word or a note of explanation—nothing! To this day, Gustave did not know what had compelled the masked man to leave so suddenly. As his daughter grew into a merry little toddler, Gustave found himself weaving the memory of his first child into his storytelling.

_"Only the most hard-working musicians ever hear the Angel of Music, my dear girl. It is my wish that one day _you_ will be blessed enough to hear his heavenly voice. But be warned, child, for he may not appear in a way you expect. There are many kinds of beauty, and the kind Heaven makes cannot be understood by us on earth. Indeed, I would think the Angel of Music would wear a _mask_, so that those who do see him are not blinded by his divine face."_

But Fate had not planned for Erik to be the last loss Gustave would suffer. Not long after his daughter's birth, gentle Hanna had passed away, her delicate constitution unable to handle the strain of childbirth. If it had not been for the blue-eyed infant she had left behind, Gustave would have been tempted to follow his dear wife into the next world. Instead, he enlisted the help of his friend, "Mama" Valerius, to nurse the baby until she could be weaned.

By the time his daughter was three, Gustave liked to think that she had "charmed all of Sweden" with her sky blue eyes, ready smile, and willingness to please everyone. In fact, when two French aristocrats—of the de Chagny family, they had said—had visited Marstrand while touring Sweden, it seemed his daughter had found a sweetheart in Ra—

"Papa!" a sweet voice trilled, tugging on Gustave's sleeve. Their performance was over, the tips collected, and the young lass was hungry for attention from any quarter. "Papa, when can we see Raoul? He hasn't visited us in the longest time!"

It was true; Raoul de Chagny's visits had been becoming less frequent ever since Gustave and his daughter had come to Paris. In Sweden, the lad and "his lassie" had been inseparable; at the end of his stay, the former had begged the Daaés to return to France with him. After Hanna's death, Gustave had accepted the idea, having no reason left to remain in his homeland. Likewise, Mama Valerius—now a widow—bought a domicile in Paris with the money her late husband, an Italian professor, had left her.

Since then, they had only seen Raoul or his brother (when the latter condescended to meet them) a few times, and even then, they could only spare a couple minutes. Gustave surmised that the recent politics agitating all of Paris had also disturbed the ménage of de Chagny.

"I don't know, dear," replied Gustave at another insistent pull on his sleeve. "Raoul's brother—remember Philippe?—is very busy nowadays, and probably doesn't have time to bring the boy to visit." The girl sighed, tossed her golden hair, and skipped off to a booth to examine its wares. Gustave began meandering about the busy street, whistling an old Swedish tune and periodically checking on his mischievous daughter.

He abruptly ceased whistling when he felt a presence behind him. But no matter how quickly he whirled around, there was never anyone there that would arouse suspicion. Uneasy, he took a few steps forward—until black leather formed a savage necklace around his neck. _I can't breathe!_ he thought in a panic. _I can't bre—_

"If I release you, you must not utter a single sound. Is that clear? You do not want to know the consequences if you disobey."

_Those words...that voice..._ The recollection of a strikingly similar situation to the one he was in now served to quell Gustave's initial terror and recover some of his rationality. He realized that the gloved hand about his throat was exerting barely any pressure; it was only his overactive imagination that had led him to believe he was being strangled. Also, he now noticed that the familiar, glorious tenor—which had sounded tense and angry while voicing the threat—was merely strained with barely suppressed amusement. Gustave stepped easily out of the leather vise to face a pair of golden eyes that twinkled with mirth. "Erik!"

The masked man made a courtly bow. "Monsieur Daaé." Still incredulous, Gustave scrutinized Erik from head to toe.

"You haven't changed a bit." Erik's eyes darkened.

"On the contrary, Monsieur. I have changed a great deal—and not necessarily for the better." An awkward pause followed this rebuttal. Suddenly, Erik's eyes flashed with urgency, and his black glove shot out to grab Gustave's shirt collar.

"What are you doing here, Gustave?" he asked hoarsely, abandoning all formal pretense. "Why _now_, of all times? Is your stay temporary? _Why are you here?_" Stupefied by the barrage of questions, Gustave could only choke out an irrelevant reply:

"Hanna's dead." The grip on his shirt collar loosened, and golden eyes softened.

"I'm sorry." Gustave felt a lump form in his throat, and he tried to articulate his words.

"Don't be. I—she—" But Erik cut him off with a graceful gesture of his hand. His next words were voiced in a gentler tone, though it was no less earnest.

"No time for that. I take it that you are living here?" Gustave nodded and promptly recited the name of the inn at which he was staying. Erik continued, in a somewhat pained voice, "Don't ask me how I know, but a pestilence is spreading throughout Europe, and it will reach France very soon. There is nothing here for you—why did you come in the first place?" Gustave mentioned something about the de Chagny family.

"De Chagny?" Erik mused. "Would you happen to be referring to Philippe Georges Marie de Chagny, the nobleman?"

"That was the one," Gustave affirmed. "It was his little brother's idea for us to come to Paris. The lad suggested that we become minstrels, and that's what we did." He tried to chuckle lightly.

Erik did not look amused. "The fool. His brother is a supporter of the Valois, and with the country at war, the noble Philippe de Chagny will likely become just another victim to political violence. As for _Raoul_, I couldn't care less about him. You must leave Paris."

Gustave protested, "But we are making a decent living through music." He was answered by a bitter laugh.

"Who will be listening to minstrels when everyone is bedridden from sickness?" Erik's wondrous voice rose to a frantic pitch. "Your only audience will be the corpses that litter the streets!" Shuddering at the ghastly picture the masked man painted, Gustave looked around for his daughter. Spying her at a stall chatting happily with a grocer selling produce, he called, "Christine!"

Gustave felt Erik shift beside him and speak. "Christine?" said he with a note of approval, apparently diverted from his rant. A pause, and then, "A follower of Christ. A befitting name for an angel." The father heard a note in Erik's voice that could only be described as longing. Christine was approaching them with a radiant smile on her face, a little white hand raised in greeting.

But when Gustave turned to introduce his masked friend, Erik was gone.

--

In another, darker district of Paris (with a rather dubious reputation), there is quaint, dimly lit dwelling situated at the corner of a street. The house is out of place there among all the clubs, bars and salons—not due to its exterior appearance, but because of the door's copper nameplate, which read, "DR. NADIR KHAN, PHYSICIAN." Indeed, passerby would wonder, what would a respectable physician be doing in _this_ part of town?

By the time Erik reached his designated room in that dwelling, he was as high-strung as his bowstrings, which produced unpleasant cracks as he slashed them across his fiddle. The sound was akin to that of chalk scratching harshly on a block of slate. His sawing apparently woke up "Doctor" Khan (an alias, of course), who soon appeared at Erik's door.

"Erik, please _stop_ that infernal _noise_! If you're going to play all night, at least play something easy to hear!" The musician absently mumbled something about the strings being too taut, and in his distraction, twisted the bow so that they became even tighter. Dr. Khan rolled his eyes and retreated to his bedroom.

"I have seen him!" the musician said to no one in particular. "Erik has seen Gustave and his little girl! Erik has seen an angel today!" Oh, the turbulence of emotions he had felt, the floods of speech that had nearly been released! Erik had forced himself to curtail the encounter, before he had said something he knew he would regret. Of his face, for example. Of his past. Of the downhill trend his life had taken since his departure from Sweden.

Of how he had been seduced by Death.

Life had been particularly unkind to him these past five years, while Death had been far too solicitous. In the month after leaving Sweden, Erik had roamed Europe as a traveling magician and entertainer, so few questions had been asked about the mask. In his wanderings about Russia, Erik had met Nadir Khan, a Persian searching in vain for a skilled foreign assassin to bring home to the head of his state. Erik, who had been suffering from ennui, had accepted the interesting proposal.

The years that followed were blurred in his memory. All he remembered with clarity was that with each assassination had come unadulterated pleasure.

Yes, as monstrous as it sounded, Erik had derived a sort of aesthetic appreciation for death in Persia that mirrored the one he had felt on the day of his mother's passing. He had had no interest in political intrigue or the pathetic lives of his victims. Nadir—that softhearted, scrupulous fool who clearly had to find another job—had never understood this. The conscientious Persian had misconstrued Erik's fascination as a carnal hunger to kill. Erik, perceiving this, had once attempted to demonstrate to Nadir the "beauty of bloodshed" on a mannequin, hoping to give his friend a valuable vicarious experience.

_"Erik, I don't think this is a good idea."_

_"Imagine his eyes, Nadir—have you ever seen a sunset? It is very much like a magnificent sunset…a momentary flare of brilliance as his life flashes before his eyes, before everything fades into darkness…"_

_"Erik, what are you _doing_?"_

_"Relax, Nadir, it is only a mannequin. Imagine the blood spreading out over the paling flesh. It is like a making a Persian carpet, is it not? Rich, crimson dye coloring fading fabric…"_

_"That is a rather realistic mannequin…"_

_"Work with me here, Nadir."_

Needless to say, the lesson had not gone well.

But that is merely one scene in Erik's colorful history. He had developed a queer relationship with Nadir Khan. The two were impossibly different, and the less scrupulous one had been inclined to make quite a few murder threats to the other. After all, it was Erik who had actually carried out the assassinations; Nadir had been gifted in extracting valuable information, so aided in locating their targets. They had maintained this strange partnership for about four years, until both had agreed that the current ruler was insane and that they could not continue such an unfulfilling life.

It was probably the only thing they had ever agreed on.

The friends had parted ways. Nadir, true to his compassionate soul, had gone to study medicine. Erik, ever the restless ghost, had secured "free and private passage" on a Genoese trading ship, _Il Muto_. He had thought that perhaps in Italy, in that wondrous place famed for its art and architecture, he would be able to abandon his strange fixation with death for an interest in more intellectual subjects.

Fate, apparently, did not intend for that to happen.

Erik had not been infected with the mysterious illness when it struck the other passengers. With "private" quarters, he had been exempt from any contact whatsoever with the crewmates. Do not fear that he had been lonely, my dear Reader—that circumstance had saved his life.

As a matter of fact, Erik had been the only one left alive by the time _Il Muto_ had been found grounded on the shores of Italy.

The disease was a terrible one indeed! What was this malady that made one delirious with fever, speckled with red and black, wild with pain? that caused one to spout flames of blood? And worst of all, that raised wicked buboes on the very organ Man used to procreate?

The perverse irony of the situation had not escaped Erik as he had gazed upon the wasted faces of the bodies unceremoniously dumped into ditches. Why, they had borne a striking resemblance to…him! The (living) Italians who remaining in the city had scurried a little faster past the insane masked man who laughed demonically in the streets. _So,_ he had thought,_ I finally have company in which I belong; a pity that my new friends cannot _speak_!_

The masked man had traveled all throughout Italy, only to have the Black Death follow him like the hound of the Devil himself. Focused on its prey, the hound pursued Erik indefatigably. He had temporarily escaped from Death's ravenous jaws by fleeing to Paris.

But Erik knew that the hound of Hell would catch up to him soon.

--

"I'll be paying a visit to Chorine today," said Erik to Nadir over a small morning repast. The friends had met coincidentally in Paris some months ago—"A most unfortunate happenstance," Erik had remarked, "to meet up with my irksome conscience while I have been thriving on my criminal ways." It was true; the ingenious criminal had discovered a way to profit financially from the war. "Careful neutrality" was Erik's euphemism for what Nadir denounced as double-dealing.

"Are Madame and Mademoiselle Giry almost ready to leave?" asked the good doctor, nibbling on his breakfast.

"I believe so. I just wanted to stop by to make sure they have everything prepared."

The tall, intimidating figure made its way briskly through the street to a rundown shack near his own lodgings. Knocking on the door—to warn its occupants rather than to request permission to enter—Erik let himself in and called, "Madame Giry?"

Large, hazel eyes peeked out fearfully from the corner of a wall. It was little Meg Giry, Chorine's daughter. Meg had never warmed up to Erik—understandable, really, since Erik was always a glacier in her presence. He reserved his kindness for Meg's mother.

Said lady soon appeared in the narrow corridor, carrying herself with dignity despite her dismal surroundings. Chorine Giry, now a middle-aged woman, constantly exuded elegance, grace, and sophistication not unlike Erik himself. The austerity of her brow and tightness about her lips, while not conforming to the standards of prettiness, gave her a sort of statuesque beauty.

"Erik," she greeted the intruder with a small smile. "How kind of you to check up on us." Erik grunted in reply and glanced back at the corner; the hazel eyes had disappeared.

"Do you have everything packed?"

"Yes. Most of our possessions I have put into bags. The most precious valuables I have sewn into our garments." They continued in this fashion for a while, with Mme. Giry giving a general inventory of things while Erik made comments or suggestions. When this was done, Mme. Giry took Erik's long, thin hands in her own.

"Erik," she began with uncharacteristic emotion, "I—I must thank you for all you have done for me and my daughter." The masked man looked like he was about to say something, but she cut him off. "I have never questioned your past or your actions. The fact that you have been our benefactor is enough for me to know that you are a good man. If we ever meet again, know that you have my loyalty if you need it."

Erik looked with admiration on this hardy little woman who had weathered through many a misfortune. Once the wife of a noble, she had been accustomed to a carefree life of luxury. When she was mistreated, however, she left of her own accord and vowed never to remarry. For several years, she had made a living as a dancer in public houses, until she became pregnant with Meg. The penniless woman had met Erik in an alleyway, and the latter had agreed to help her financially, on the condition that she resumed dancing as soon as possible.

"I would not want to see your talent wasted. I am," he had explained with a dry laugh, "a patron of the arts, if you will." She had assented to his condition immediately.

Now, Erik looked the woman in the eye. "Do you have enough money to get by?"

Mme. Giry laughed good-naturedly. "With my thrifty ways, the sum you gave us should last for years."

So, once again, Erik parted ways with a rare friend. Just as with Nadir, however, the two were bound to meet again.

--

When Erik returned from Mme. Giry's, he was instantly met by the frowning, dark-skinned face of Nadir. The normally composed Persian had a concerned expression that disconcerted Erik, and the latter worriedly asked what was the matter.

The Persian swallowed. The masked man was not going to like the news. "Remember the two people you told me to keep an eye on?"

Erik wanted to throttle his friend for such evasiveness. "The Daaés? _What about them?_ Be straightforward, man!"

"It seems they still have not left Paris. And I have been informed that they're not going anywhere soon."

"Why? _Get to the point!_"

"M. Gustave Daaé has been visited by the Black Death."

--

Erik released a string of curses as he entered the inn, but halted when he opened the door to Gustave's room. None of the gruesome scenes he had witnessed in the past could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes.

Death had never looked so ugly.

_It seems you've got yet another corpse for company_, his mind taunted,_ and this one can even stop for a little chat!_ Erik tried not to gag, blocking out the sight of vicious, black buboes on Gustave's pale skin. _Look, Erik, it's a Persian carpet! Is it not a creative design?_

Erik staggered and attempted to keep his growing insanity under control. Gustave's cloudy blue eyes opened to take in the sight of the interloper. The dying man cracked a smile.

"Erik," he greeted in a trembling, hoarse voice, "it's good to see you."

At this, Erik broke down. In a storm of tears and anger, he yelled, "Why didn't you leave when I told you to! This is all your fault!" With the placidity of one approaching death, Gustave opened up his emaciated arms. Not caring if he caught the disease, Erik sunk into his surrogate father's embrace, still crying fitfully.

"It can't be helped," Gustave soothed. "But I am glad you came. I have some matters to discuss with you. You've seen my daughter, Christine?" Erik nodded. How could he forget the sight of an angel? "Well, as you know, I've been quarantined in here so that she isn't infected." Now, Gustave grabbed Erik's hand urgently. "She needs protection, Erik. A guardian angel. I told her that once I died, I would send her the Angel of Music."

Erik scoffed despite his tears. "Why would you feed her such lies if they'll only end in disappointment? You're not dead quite yet, old man. Don't assume you already know the secrets of Heaven, if such a place exists."

Gustave shook his head with a knowing look that Erik despised. "I'm asking you to be that Angel of Music, Erik." Silence greeted this statement. Suddenly, Erik stood up, pushing Gustave forcefully away.

Pointing to his mask, he roared, "You fool! What makes you think that _I_ can be an angel? No! Not with—with—_this_—"

Still with that imperturbable calm, Gustave said, "Let me be the judge of that, Erik. I think it is time that you show me what's behind the mask."

"Never!"

"In all the time I've known you, I've never asked questions. But now I want to see your true face, Erik. Can you not do me this one favor before my final hour arrives?"

The masked man laughed bitterly. "Seeing my face will probably bring you closer to that hour."

But Gustave persisted, and at last, Erik's long fingers reached up to untie the black ribbons.

"Oh, Erik," sighed Gustave when he saw the death's head. Erik trembled like a leaf at the tone of overwhelming love and acceptance in the sick man's voice. The moment was so intense that it became difficult to breathe.

"Do you hate me?" Erik wondered what had made him say something so childish.

"Oh, Erik," Gustave repeated, drawing a wasted hand over Erik's skeletal one. "I feel closer to you than ever." At this, Erik felt some of the tension leave his body as he gave a lighthearted rejoinder.

"That doesn't come as a surprise to me, you know. You are approaching death quite rapidly, so it makes perfect sense for you to relate to a corpse." Thus, Gustave's final moments were spent as all the other times he had been with Erik: witty banter; a few subtle, heartfelt sentiments; and of course, music.

Any qualms Gustave had harbored about entrusting Christine into this man's care vanished when, for the first time, he heard Erik sing. It was a requiem, and the otherworldly voice sang with an exultation that seemed to lift Gustave's soul out of his earthly body.

Perhaps that is what actually happened.

Erik pulled a white bed sheet over the body before exiting the room. He entered another, smaller bedroom, where Gustave's daughter slept in a small cot. Grateful for the darkness, the masked man gently took the angel in his arms. Christine stirred and opened her eyes, still half-asleep. "Daddy?"

Softening his voice as much as possible, Erik answered, "Your Daddy is gone, Christine." Naturally, the poor little girl began to cry.

Unable to stand her tears, Erik softly sang, "_Don't cry, my angel…_" At the last word, Christine abruptly stopped crying. Clutching the folds of his black clothes, she timidly called, "Angel? Are you my Angel of Music?" _It must be him_, she thought desperately. _Papa promised! And that voice…_

The Voice seemed even more angelic than before when it answered her plea. "Yes, child. I am your Angel of Music. I am here to take you out of danger, and then I will return to your father in Heaven. Now sleep, little one." Almost against her will, Christine closed her eyes and succumbed to slumber.

Erik sighed in relief. He knocked on the door of a house Gustave had said belonged to "Mama Valerius." A sleepy old woman answered; without a word, Erik deposited the sleeping angel in her arms and handed her an explanatory note written in his crude hand. And before the old woman could even blink, he blended back into the shadows.

--

For a long time afterwards, life for Erik was hell. He had returned safely from his nighttime rendezvous, only to be afflicted with the same sickness that had ravaged Gustave. Nadir seldom abandoned his vigil by his friend's bedside. The two endured several grueling months before Erik fully recovered.

On the eve of this anticipated phenomenon, Erik's last fever broke, but the aftermath left him in a mild state of delirium. He dimly heard someone—was that Nadir? it must be—telling him, _"You're going to be all right, Erik. You're very lucky; victims rarely survive an attack of the Black Death."_

Erik's mind was in a haze. The last thing he remembered was taking care of an angel—but why did he feel so awful? It was because he was sick—yes, the Black Death!—_wait_, what of the angel?—What angel…wasn't _he_ the angel? But angels didn't get sick—that meant he wasn't an angel. But Christine! Was _she_ sick? The Black Death would kill a little girl, even an angel like her—oh no, he had failed Gustave! He had killed an angel. What did that make him? He was already a thief and a murderer, but the latter only killed humans.

Although he was delirious, somehow his mind conjured up an unusually clear image. It was a picture of the streets of Italy—oh, so many dead bodies! Why wasn't he as lifeless as they were? How could he have survived, despite being practically born as a corpse? Once again, Erik thought of his uncanny resemblance to the dead…

It hit him.

He was laughing, cackling like lunatic while Nadir's distressed inquiries fell on deaf ears. Erik hardly noticed, so caught up was he in his epiphany.

He didn't just _look _like the victims of the Black Death.

He _was _the Black Death.

-- END OF PART ONE --

* * *


End file.
